


Pie In The Sky

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Hunter Retirement, M/M, Pie, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Dean is injured badly enough to end their hunting career, so they replace it with pie. A lot of pie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a bit of a challenge to myself to write curtain!fic, which is one of the clichés I love and which I hadn't written yet. You know how I love clichés, right? Somehow, it ended up a whole lot longer than I was expecting and with a lot more pie. A LOT more pie.
> 
> Massive thanks to sapphic85, who read it when it was in its infancy and pointed out how to make it not-dull, to selecasharp for doing an epic Beta job on it, and to everyone who has participated in my pie-related polls over the last, um, year or so. Man, I write fic so slowly.
> 
> If any mistakes still remain, it's because MY BUILDING WAS ON FIRE when I was editing it. Just saying...

They have separate rooms, but they don't always use them.

Every so often, Dean creeps into Sam's room to sleep. After the first few times Sam woke up to find Dean curled up in a sleeping bag on his floor, with his injured hand held protectively against his chest, he bought a second bed for his room, but it's not something they've ever talked about.

Less often, it's Sam creeping across the hallway to his brother's room. Sometimes he just wakes up in the middle of the night and the silence of being the only one in the room presses down on him until he just has to go check that Dean's still there, still alive, that he isn't still stuck in a single motel room while Dean's being ripped apart in Hell. He doesn't sleep in Dean's room, just sinks to the floor and listens to Dean's gentle snores until he's pulled himself back from whatever dark place his mind has taken him to, then he sneaks back to his own room.

Dean gets up first now because he starts work about two hours earlier than Sam. He wakes Sam before he leaves, yelling at him to come get his coffee before it gets cold. Sam stumbles into the kitchen half-asleep, still in his sweats with his hair all over the place, and grabs at the mug Dean hands him. They drink their coffee together, either in companionable silence or chatting about nothing, then Dean heads out to work and Sam goes to take a shower.

Sam's an administrative assistant at an investment company. The work is easy and can get a bit boring, but there's something about filing papers and organising information that appeals to him. He got the job while Dean was still in the hospital, when the doctors were starting to talk about long-term physiotherapy and the possibility of an operation in a year or so, after they'd had time to see how his hand would heal. He'd been thinking about job-hunting ever since they'd said that Dean would never get full use of it back.

Dean comes in to Sam’s work every day to bring him lunch. The bakery he works at is just down the block and he's usually done there by one, when Sam's break is. He brings his own lunch over as well and they eat in the staffroom together while Dean tells Sam all about the crazy new pie fillings he's planning.

 

****

 

When Dean first got out of the hospital, Sam thought he was going to go crazy with boredom and frustration. Dean’s left hand was still in a bulky cast right up to his elbow but even if it hadn't been, the range of movement he had meant that he was basically one-handed. He couldn't do much of anything – he couldn't even drive at that point because it hurt too much and the cast made it too awkward. He spent two weeks sitting around the apartment while Sam was at work, watching crappy daytime TV and getting increasingly depressed and moody.

Sam tried to cheer him up but it was hard in the face of how useless Dean felt. He suggested they find somewhere out of town where they could practice shooting – they'd both learnt how to shoot with either hand while they were still teenagers. Dad had insisted on it.

“What the hell's the point?” asked Dean in a grumble. “Not like I'm going to be hunting now. There's no point in a one-handed hunter.” He changed the channel to something with loud explosions and pretended not to hear Sam's reply, just like he pretended not to hear any of the other suggestions Sam made, his words falling into the air between them as if it were a vacuum.

Sam began to wonder if he should try to convince Dean to see some kind of disability counsellor, even though he could already picture Dean's reaction to the suggestion. Then he came home one day to the smell of warm pie; Dean was in the kitchen, running water into the sink, and the room looked like a flour-filled bomb had hit it.

Sam stared at him until he gave a slightly embarrassed half-shrug. “There was a chick baking on the TV,” he said. “It looked pretty easy, so I figured I'd give it a try.” He grinned, looking proud. “I made pumpkin pie.”

Sam let his eyes travel around the mess that used to be their kitchen. “And it involved throwing flour onto the ceiling?”

Dean's eyes darted upwards and he grimaced slightly. “Took me a while to work out how to do some parts,” he said, glancing down at his hand, and Sam immediately felt bad about saying anything.

The pie was awesome. They ate the whole thing in one sitting, smothered in whipped cream.

“Jesus,” said Sam after his first bite. “This is really good, Dean.”

Dean grinned. “Of course it is,” he said. “You ever known me to do a half-ass job at something?”

Sam looked pointedly at the table, which still had flour on it. “Cleaning the kitchen jumps to mind,” he said.

Dean scowled at him. “Nothing's ever clean enough for you, Captain OCD.”

“It's not OCD to not want to live in squalor, Dean,” said Sam. “Most people don't think a mat of hair is essential to a shower plughole.”

“Well, I've never been normal,” said Dean. “Eat your pie and stop bitching.”

Sam rolled his eyes but let it go. The pie was way too good to ruin with an argument about Dean's bathroom habits.

Dean let out a deeply satisfied sigh when he'd finished, pushed away his plate and slouched back in the chair. “Man, I'm a culinary god,” he said.

Sam was too busy chasing round the bowl for the last bit of pastry to disagree. He sucked it off the spoon, licking off the last bit of cream, then looked up to catch Dean giving him an oddly intense look.

“What?” he asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Dean frowned. “Nothing,” he said. He pushed his plate further towards Sam. “I cooked, you clean, bitch.”

“I'm not sure making pie counts as cooking,” said Sam, but he picked up the plates anyway, and took them over to the sink. He could tell from the way Dean was holding his injured hand on his lap that he'd taxed it too much already – it was still a long way from fully healed. Besides, it would give him the chance to clean up all the flour that Dean had missed earlier.

Dean sat back and watched him, despite the fact that Sam knew that Night Of The Living Dead was on, which Dean never missed if he could help it. He didn't say anything, just watched as Sam washed up the plates and a couple of the utensils that Dean had used and not cleaned properly, then wiped down the table, the ceiling and most of the surfaces again. When he'd finished, he turned and met Dean's eyes and there was a quiet silence for a moment, while they both just looked at each other. It felt like there was something Sam should be saying or doing, but he couldn't put his finger on what, so in the end he just pushed himself away from the sink and headed into the living room.

He touched his hand to Dean's shoulder briefly as he passed. “Come on, let's watch zombies attack,” he said, pushing the weird moment away.

 

****

 

After that, Dean started baking all the time. Sam got fed up with pie after about a week, but he didn't say anything, even when Dean started showing up at his work at lunchtimes to share his latest creation. He even cleaned the kitchen every evening without bitching too much; anything that pulled Dean out of his funk was worth having to mop the floor.

He was walking home from work that Friday, hoping like hell that Dean had branched out into brownies or something so that he wouldn't have to eat any pie that evening, when he saw the sign in the window of a bakery:

Baker Wanted  
Training Given.

His feet took him inside without him having to think about it and he had a long chat with the owner which touched on Dean's lack of experience, his massive enthusiasm for baked goods, and whether or not his disability would hold him back. When Sam finally got home, he tentatively mentioned it to Dean and was surprised by how little convincing he had to do to get him to agree to go in there the next day with one of his pies.

That night, Sam woke up at 3 am to find the lights still on and stumbled out into the kitchen to find Dean sitting in front of a table full of pies. He looked up at Sam with a frown.

“I can't decide whether to take blueberry or apple and rhubarb,” he said. “I mean, blueberry's a classic, but maybe I should go for something a bit different and edgy.”

Sam stared at him for a long moment. “Go to bed,” he said eventually.

Dean huffed but stood up and followed Sam out of the kitchen. “You just don't take pie seriously enough,” he muttered as he went into his room. Sam ignored him and went back to bed.

Dean charmed the hell out of Mr. Hudson, who ran the bakery, and got the job without any problem. Sam never found out exactly what kind of pie he took with him, but he did get to try the cookies that Dean made on his first day. After that, Dean tended to keep his baking just for work and Sam stopped seeing pie every time he closed his eyes.

 

****

 

After lunch, Dean heads home for the nap that he always vehemently denies taking if Sam mentions it. He tends to do some housework as well, and there's almost always dinner waiting for Sam when he gets home. Again, if he mentions either of those facts, Dean gets pissy and Sam has to do his own laundry for the next couple of weeks.

It's all pretty easy and relaxed, and the complete opposite to what Sam pictured when he first realised that he and Dean were going to have to start living as civilians, sitting in the hospital and hearing the words 'permanent damage' running through his mind on repeat.

The stupid thing is that they both got out of the big showdown with Lilith with little more than a couple of scratches and a nosebleed. The whole thing came down to a pitched battle over the last seal, demons and angels facing off against each other while Sam and Dean desperately tried to keep either side from accidentally tearing the world apart. When it was all over, when Lilith was dead, her army scattered and the seal still in one piece, Castiel thanked them gravely and then offered Sam his benediction.

“It will balance the demon blood in you,” he said. “You'll be completely human.”

Sam winced at the idea that he wasn't now, and Dean frowned. “Why the hell didn't you offer that earlier, then?” he asked.

Castiel spread his hands as if in apology but there was nothing in his eyes that said he was sorry. “It was not time,” he said simply.

“You mean you needed me to still have my powers for this fight,” guessed Sam, wiping the blood off his face.

Castiel bowed his head in agreement and Dean made a disgusted noise. “Jesus, you guys suck almost as much as the other guys,” he said bitterly. “Do it already so that we can get the hell out of here.”

Castiel was still gazing into Sam's eyes. “It is Samuel's choice,” he said.

Sam thought for a moment about being able to just pull demons out of their hosts with his mind, or move things across a room, and then he thought about the look in Dean's eyes every time he did. The look that said _What has my brother become?_ “Do it,” he said firmly and Castiel laid his hand on Sam's forehead for a long moment, then gently kissed his cheek. Sam felt something settle into his soul, something warm and golden.

“You okay?” Dean asked him, his eyes narrowed in worry.

“Fine,” said Sam, blinking against the sudden feeling of being lighter than air. “Wow, actually, I feel awesome.”

“That will fade,” said Castiel. “It is because you are currently without sin. In time, petty sins will weigh you down again.”

Sam wobbled slightly. “Whoa,” he said. “It's like being really, really high.”

Dean rolled his eyes and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. “Come on, Courtney Love, let's get out of here.” He led Sam back to the car and drove them to the nearest motel.

They spent the next few days grinning like loons, exhilarated that it was all finally over and that nothing was hanging over them. The immediate euphoric effect of Castiel's benediction did slowly wear off, but Sam still felt happier than he could remember being. After everything that had happened, it was finally just him and Dean hunting together without having to worry about possibly-evil powers, or demons with secret agendas, or even getting revenge.

The second hunt they went on afterwards was a poltergeist, and maybe they went into the house it was squatting in with too much confidence – just a poltergeist, after all, what was that compared with the armies of Hell? And then, somehow it managed to trap Dean in an upstairs room and bounced him around the walls like a rubber ball while he let out incoherent yells of rage. Sam burst through the door just in time to see a piano go shooting across the room and slam into Dean's arm, trapping it against the wall.

Dean gave a half-shout, half-scream of pain and Sam was barely able to think for a split-second, then he grabbed the mojo bag from where Dean had dropped it and shoved it into the far wall. The poltergeist made an unearthly sound and disappeared in an explosion of smoke, but Sam didn't even see it.

Dean's arm was still caught between the piano and the wall, and his face was scrunched up with pain. “Jesus Christ,” he panted. “Jesus fuck, Sammy, think I'm gonna need an ambulance.” Then he passed out.

It took both the EMTs and Sam to move the piano back and when they did, Dean made a deep, groaning noise that made Sam want to tear the whole house apart for hurting him, even if the poltergeist was gone. The look on the faces of the paramedics when they saw Dean's arm was enough to tell Sam that this was going to be a long recovery, although it wasn't until they were in the hospital and the doctor was talking about nerve damage that Sam realised Dean wasn't going to ever fully recover. After everything they'd done, everything they'd gone through and still walked away from with only scars and bad memories, this was the thing that was going to end the Winchester family hunting business for good.

 

****

 

The people Sam works with are mostly friendly and good fun, although they clearly have no idea what to make of him and Dean. The IDs they were using when Dean got hurt weren't for brothers, and now they're stuck with being just friends. Extremely close friends who live together, and Sam knows exactly how most people interpret that.

They go out for a drink after work a couple of times a week and Dean usually tags along. The first few times, Sam noticed a few of the 'are they/aren't they?' looks that he'd gotten used to over the years from motel owners and diner waitresses, and a couple of the 'aw, aren't they cute?' looks as well. Then Dean, who'd always appeared to be oblivious to the whole thing and looked no closer to catching on now, spent an hour chatting up a blonde in a short skirt at the bar while Sam tried to ignore the increasingly worried looks he was getting from his co-workers.

When Dean did come back, it was just to pat Sam's shoulder and say, “I'm gonna head out with Yasmin. See you later, Sammy,” with a wink.

Sam nodded and said, “Okay, see you later, dude,” and turned back to find almost everyone staring at him as if he was about to turn into the Hulk. He sighed. “Seriously, we're just friends.”

Not everyone looked completely convinced, but the intense scrutiny did die down after that.

 

****

 

Sam always takes time off work to drive Dean to his hospital appointments, even after Dean's hand has recovered enough for him to drive. They both know it's just an excuse and Dean's usually the one to drive on the way there anyway. On the way back, Sam takes the wheel if there's been a lot of poking and prodding and Dean's in pain, or if it's been bad news or, more frustratingly, no news at all, just more 'we'll wait and see'.

Roughly a year after the poltergeist, Dean has an appointment with a neurologist and an orthopaedic surgeon to discuss the possibility of an operation to at least give him back some movement. It's a big deal – as yet, no one's really been willing to commit on just how much Dean might recover, and Sam knows Dean is nervous as hell. He finds himself praying for good news as Dean drives them to the hospital, too fast and jerky on the turns, even though he's still not sure where he falls on the God thing after meeting Castiel and the other angels and being treated more like a pawn by them than by the demons.

There's a couple of tests before the doctors can make a decision and the usual long periods of time spent sitting around in waiting rooms while Sam pretends not to notice the way Dean's knee is jiggling with tension. When Dr. Walters finally calls him into the office, Dean stands up fast, then hesitates. He gives Sam a grin that doesn't even begin to hide his true state of mind, goes inside and shuts the door. Sam shifts awkwardly and wonders how long they'll be. His own knee starts to bounce.

When Dean comes out, his face is a blank mask, and Sam knows it's bad news.

“Let's go,” Dean says, and Sam follows him out to the car. Dean drives, not even letting Sam offer to take the wheel, but he doesn't head back to the apartment. He spends half an hour driving aimlessly in circles around the town while Sam clenches his hands into fists and works hard at not asking how it went.

Eventually, Dean pulls over by the side of the road somewhere outside of town, under a stand of trees. He flicks the engine off and lets out a long sigh. Sam listens to the birds sing and hopes like hell that it's not as bad as he thinks.

“The docs think there's not much an operation could do,” Dean says after a long handful of minutes. Sam's heart plummets. “They said that my range of movement isn't going to ever really increase significantly.”

“Dean,” says Sam, and reaches out to put his hand on Dean's arm where it's still clinging to the steering wheel. “I'm sorry.”

Dean shrugs that away. “It's okay,” he says. “After all, I'm already used to it.” Sam bites hard at the inside of his cheek to stop himself calling Dean's bullshit. “Besides,” adds Dean, “wouldn't want to give up my boots.”

One of the most annoying things that Dean hasn't been able to do since his injury is tie shoelaces. He isn't able to do up buttons either, but Sam went out the day before Dean came out of hospital and bought a whole load of shirts with snaps. Somehow, it never even crossed his mind that Dean's favourite boots might cause a problem, not until the first time Dean came out of his room with his laces trailing and fixed Sam with a scowl.

“Do my laces,” he demanded, and Sam stared at him for a long moment before dropping to his knees and doing them up. It felt weirdly like when they were kids and Dean had used to tie his shoes but in reverse, and it was incredibly unsettling. The black look on Dean's face made it clear that he thought the same.

Sam didn't wait until Dean had to ask after that, just tied them without saying anything. Dean clearly hated it and it wasn't a massive surprise when Sam came back from work two weeks later to find Dean wearing a pair of brand new biker boots, the kind that zipped up.

Dean's worn the boots every day since, not bothering to buy another pair of shoes even when he started his job. Sam's pretty sure that he wouldn't stop wearing them even if there were some kind of miracle and he woke up with his hand completely healed tomorrow, but he doesn't call Dean on that.

Dean starts the engine and drives back to their apartment, where he goes straight to his room and shuts the door. He doesn't come out for the rest of the evening, not even when Sam cooks dinner, and in the end Sam just gives up and goes to bed.

 

****

 

It's no big surprise when he wakes up the next morning to find that the other bed in his room has been slept in. He wishes that he slept slightly less soundly so that he'd wake up when Dean creeps in, but he's pretty sure that if Dean thought Sam was going to wake up, he wouldn't come in at all.

He goes out to the kitchen and finds Dean making waffles.

“Chocolate sauce or syrup?” he asks when he sees Sam.

Sam shrugs and sits down at the table. “Syrup,” he says and Dean nods, then starts telling him all about the replacement brake pads he's going to get for the Impala after work, which is a pretty clear Dean-signal for 'we're not talking about this'. Sam watches him move around the kitchen, occasionally using his left arm to brace things but mainly holding it stiffly against his side, and wonders if he'll ever get used to the sight of Dean's fingers all curled up into a claw.

 

****

 

Dean brings apple pie over for lunch that day and Sam has to bite his lip to stop himself saying anything. Dean always saves apple pie for when he's really upset.

“How was your morning?” Sam asks when they've settled on a bench in the park near Sam's work.

“Same as always,” Dean says shortly, as if most days he doesn't spend most of lunch telling Sam all about some pastry-related disaster, or exactly what he's going to do to the next customer who tells him all about their Great-Aunt Maude's amazing pie-recipe. Sam just nods and lets it go, and they eat in silence.

Dean packs up his stuff as soon as he's finished eating, even though Sam still has ten minutes left on his break. Sam watches him and wonders how long Dean will brood for.

“Guess I'll go back to work then,” he says.

Dean's movements still for a moment. “You don't have to,” he says gruffly, not looking up.

Sam frowns. “Well, I kinda do,” he points out. “Or Harry will fire me.”

Dean cuts the air with a frustrated movement of his head. “No, I mean...you don't have to keep working there.”

Sam stares at him, waiting for an explanation, and after a moment, Dean huffily sighs. “You don't have to keep hanging around here for me now. I can do okay on my own – don't need your help anymore. You can go do your own thing.”

“My own thing,” repeats Sam slowly.

“Yeah,” says Dean, still not looking at Sam. “Go hunt again, if that's what you want, or go to college, or whatever.”

Sam is completely taken aback. “I am doing what I want,” he says, wondering where all this has suddenly come from.

Dean snorts. “Oh, sure. You've always wanted to work some shitty desk job and look after your cripple brother.”

“You're not a cripple,” says Sam sharply.

Dean shake his head again, standing up. “This is it for me, Sam,” he says seriously. “But it doesn't have to be for you. You don't have to stay for me.”

Sam's still gaping at just how wrong Dean is when Dean walks away, heading back to their apartment.

 

****

 

Roughly a week after everything, most of the effects of Castiel's benediction had worn off although Sam still found himself smiling for no reason at odd moments. That could just have been the relief of everything finally being over, though; no ticking time bomb hanging over their heads. Just him and Dean and the open road stretching out in front of them.

They spent most of that week recovering and catching up on their sleep. Sam took the chance to go through his clothes and throw most of them out, then went out and bought new stuff. It felt like a new start, after years of just grabbing the first thing that looked like it might fit, to be able to actually find things he liked. Just because they were still going to be hunting and it was all likely to end up blood-stained and torn, didn't mean he couldn't have nice stuff for a change. Besides, so much of his clothes had ended up being trashed in the last few, desperate weeks that he was basically down to wearing only the clothes that were just a bit too small for him or had suspicious-looking stains on them.

It was while he was out shopping that he found the case. He was trying to work out if he could justify buying another dark hoodie when he overheard a woman telling her friend all about the mysterious creature her husband claimed to have seen in the woods last week. Both women were strongly of the opinion that the only thing he'd seen had been the bottom of too many bottles of beer, but Sam heard enough to identify it as a bearwalker. He reluctantly put the hoodie back on the shelf, and went to tell Dean.

“A hunt?” said Dean, sounding surprised. He'd been watching some old monster movie in their motel room, sprawled out on his bed.

“Yeah,” said Sam, looking around at his new stuff and trying to work out which pile of clothing had the weapons bag under it. “You know, that thing we do when we get bored of TV.”

Dean frowned at him. “We don't have to,” he said slowly.

Sam turned away from his search to stare at him. “You want to stop hunting?” he asked incredulously.

“Hell no,” said Dean. “Just figured you might want to, what with all this nesting you've been doing.” He waved a hand at Sam's new backpack, then shrugged. “There's nothing keeping you here.”

Sam stared until Dean was shifting uncomfortably, then turned away and started looking for the guns again. “I want to hunt,” he said firmly. “Still plenty of evil to kill, right?”

Dean was silent for a long moment, then he grinned. “Damn straight,” he agreed, getting up. He pulled the weapons bag out from under a towel and opened it, then threw one of the handguns at Sam. “Looking for this?”

“Great,” said Sam, checking that it was loaded. “Let's start with this bearwalker.”

They killed it without any problems, working together like a well-oiled machine, and then Dean was injured on the very next hunt.

Afterwards, when Dean got out of the hospital, and they moved into the apartment and had to go and buy all the little things for it – linen and crockery and a mat for the bathroom floor, Sam remembered Dean's comment about nesting and tried not to choke on the irony.

 

****

 

It's a Friday, which means that most of Sam's colleagues are going to the local bar for a couple of drinks after work. Dean usually joins them, but after what happened at lunch, Sam's not sure he'll turn up this week. He's half-tempted to beg off himself and just go straight home so that he can smack some sense into Dean, but in the end he finds himself just following the others down the street and into the bar.

It's pretty busy, as it always is on a Friday night, but Sam spots Dean as soon as he comes through the door. He glances around, then grins when he catches sight of Sam. He sits down next to him easily enough, and Sam lets himself believe that Dean's forgotten all about everything he was saying at lunch. He pushes over the beer that he had already bought for Dean, out of habit.

“The other three are still behind the bar,” he says, referring to the beers he owes Dean from the game of darts he lost last week. “I figured I wouldn't get them all at once, because you're gonna end up paying if we play again.”

Dean laughs. “Dream on,” he says, taking a drink. “You're going to end up buying every drink for the rest of our lives.” Sam thinks about saying that he just went easy on Dean to make him feel better, but he's not sure if Dean would take that as a 'pandering the disabled guy' thing and get annoyed, so instead he says nothing, just lets Dean's good mood relax the tension between them.

They don't play darts again though, because Dean spots a brunette in a tight top making eyes at him from across the bar and goes over to say hi. He's been chatting to her for about fifteen minutes, his good hand cupped around her elbow, when Sam's phone rings.

Sam frowns when he glances at his cell display to see Bobby's name. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Hey, Sam,” says Bobby, but he doesn't sound worried or stressed in the way that he does when there's something potentially apocalyptic going on, and Sam relaxes.

“What's up?” he asks.

“Got a job down your way,” says Bobby without preamble, and Sam frowns.

“A job?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” says Bobby and Sam hears paper being shuffled in the background. “Looks like a poltergeist, but I can't be sure without checking myself. Three serious injuries and two suspicious deaths, all in the same supermarket...”

Sam cuts across his explanation. “Bobby, we're retired,” he points out. “You know that. Dean can't hunt with his hand.”

“I know that, idjit,” says Bobby. “But Dean said you were looking to go solo.”

Sam ignites with white-hot rage. He glares across the bar at where Dean is leaning in close to whisper something in the girl's ear. “I'm not,” he says firmly. “We're retired. Both of us.”

“O-kay,” says Bobby slowly, clearly realising that he's stepped into the middle of something. “I'll get someone else to take a look then.”

“You do that,” says Sam firmly, then takes a deep breath, because it's not Bobby's fault that Dean's acting like a dick. “I'll talk to you later,” he says. “I've got an ass to kick.”

Bobby snorts. “Have fun,” he says and hangs up.

Sam takes another breath, tucks his phone away, and then stalks across the bar to Dean. He grabs his shoulder and pulls him away from the girl, making Dean stumble as he turns round.

“If you want me gone,” Sam says tightly, trying hard to stop himself from yelling to the whole bar, “then you just damned well tell me. Don't go getting Bobby involved.”

Dean opens his mouth but Sam doesn't give him time to answer. “And if you don't want me gone, then you need to quit acting like I can't make my own decisions. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here.” He's still holding onto Dean's shoulder and he gives it a rough shake, then turns and gets the hell out of the bar before he does something stupid, like punch Dean's stubborn, idiotic face.

 

****

 

He's still fuming when he gets back to the apartment, and he stands for a long moment just inside the front door. He looks around, thinking about all the ways they've made this place a home together and about how Dean apparently wants to throw him out of that, then he leaves again, slamming the door behind him even though there's no one to hear it.

He walks around town for an hour or so, bitching to himself about Dean and trying to ignore the sinking worry that it's not just Dean trying to do what he thinks is best for Sam, that he actually doesn't want Sam around. In the end he goes back to the apartment because there's nowhere else for him to go. Dean's still not back and Sam figures he's probably gone home with the girl from the bar. He goes to bed but doesn't sleep, just lies awake until he hears Dean creep in. He stays still, pretending to be asleep when Dean pauses at his door, then listens as Dean goes through his usual nightly routines, so familiar to Sam that even through the wall he can picture exactly what Dean is doing.

Dean's light clicks out and there's silence again. Sam shuts his eyes and tries to fall asleep but his mind's working too fast, running through all the possible things he can say to Dean in the morning, when they have the inevitable conversation about this. Part of him just wants to smack Dean around the head and yell at him until Dean gives in, but he's pretty sure that's not going to work in the long run.

A couple of hours later, Dean's bedroom door opens and footsteps shuffle across the hall. Dean pauses in the doorway of Sam's room before coming inside and standing over the bed. It's dark and Sam can't see anything more than a vague black shape, so Dean won't be able to see anything more than a dark lump in the bed. For a moment Sam's tempted to fake sleep again, then Dean makes a stifled, hitching sound in his throat, and Sam sits up without thinking about it.

“Dean?” he whispers.

Dean starts. “Sorry,” he says roughly. “Didn't meant to wake you.” There's something in his voice that sounds almost lost and Sam knows that he must have had one of the nightmares that they never talk about.

“It's okay,” he says. “I was already awake.”

There's a soft movement in the dark and Dean sits down on the edge of Sam's bed. “I don't actually want you to leave,” he confesses.

Sam pulls himself up to sit against the headboard. He still can't see any more of Dean than his silhouette but he squashes the temptation to turn on a light so that he can see the look on Dean's face. There's something about the dark silence of the night that makes it easier for Dean to say these kinds of things, so instead Sam reaches out to touch Dean's arm.

“I know,” he says quietly, because despite the nagging doubt, he's always known that Dean would rather have him around than not. “I don't want to leave,” he adds.

There's a long silence and Sam wonders if Dean thinks he's just saying what he thinks Dean wants to hear. “You said you wanted to hunt,” says Dean eventually and Sam has to stifle a sigh. Trust Dean to remember everything he's ever said.

“I did,” he admits, because at the time he'd said it, he'd meant it. “That was then. Now, I want this.”

“Shuffling paper and tying shoelaces,” says Dean sceptically and Sam shrugs even though Dean probably can't see it.

“Maybe the job isn't the most fulfilling,” he admits, “but this is where I want to be.”

Sam can feel Dean's wrist muscles twitch slightly and there's an even longer silence. He starts to think that the conversation is over then Dean says in a hoarse whisper, “I've never wanted to hold you back.”

Sam sits forward, closer to Dean, without thinking about it. “You never have,” he says firmly.

“Sam,” says Dean softly and then somehow, completely out of nowhere, they're kissing. Sam's not sure who moved first, or even how they find each other's mouths in the dark without fumbling, but for a long few seconds Dean's lips move against his and he's apparently too tired to pull away, or to even remember that he's meant to pull away rather than kiss his brother back in the quiet dark of his room.

Dean starts back with a jerk but he doesn't get up. Sam finds himself desperately searching for something to say, but his mind is a blank.

After a moment, Dean clears his throat. “Uh, I'm gonna...go back to bed,” he says and stands up.

“Yeah,” says Sam. His whole mind feels numb and frozen, and he barely manages to add, “Good night,” before Dean leaves. He lies back down again wondering what the hell that was, and whether it's going to happen again. Whether he wants it to happen again.

 

****

 

They both sleep in late the next morning and when Sam finally gets up, he's not surprised that Dean's bedroom door is still firmly closed. He stumbles down to the kitchen and puts the coffee on, wondering if things are going to be weird now.

The smell of coffee pulls Dean out of bed, bleary-eyed, and Sam puts a mug straight into his hand, happy to reverse their roles of the rest of the week.

“Morning,” Dean manages after he's drunk half the mug.

“Morning,” Sam replies and it's just like any other Saturday morning, as if last night they didn't kiss. He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed.

 

****

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v95/flawedamythyst/Fic/?action=view&current=rhubarb_pie-by-hayford-peirce1.jpg)

****


	2. Pie In The Sky

They don't talk about it. Sam wouldn't ever expect Dean to voluntarily bring something like that up and he's reluctant to mention it himself. In the bright light of day, the whole thing feels a little like a dream, something he finds his mind replaying whenever his job gets too boring and repetitious. He doesn't want the moment to be spoiled by rehashing and arguing about it now.

It's a bad week at work. Someone in another department messes up and loses a load of files, which means Sam has to redo a lot of what he did the previous week. Most of it is the kind of meaningless paperwork that is merely there to provide bureaucrats with something to do and by Wednesday, Sam's frustrated with just how pointless it all feels, especially when he compares it to hunting.

He can't bitch about it to Dean though, in case Dean takes it as a sign that Sam wants to leave after all. Dean seems to have let that one go for now but he's clearly still upset about what the doctors said and is moody and sullen. Sam wonders if that's a reaction to the kiss as well, but there's no way to tell.

On Thursday, Sam gets taken into his boss's office and chewed out for something so petty that he can't believe anyone gives a damn about it. After that, he sits and silently fumes at his desk until lunch, and something about the look on his face makes everyone, even Frank, who's normally immune to other people's emotions, leave him alone.

Dean takes one look at him when he comes in for lunch and his frown deepens. They go to the common room for lunch rather than their usual bench because it's ridiculously hot outside, sticky and oppressive, and Sam finds it hard to manage his usual level of small talk.

“How was work?” he asks Dean and it sounds like some kind of accusation.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “You know, it's a good thing that Castiel kissed the psychic mojo out of you, or they'd be dealing with broken glass all over this place right now. What's up?”

Sam takes a deep breath and forces his frustration down tighter. “Nothing,” he says. “It's fine.”

Dean doesn't look convinced. “C'mon, Sammy,” he says. “Don't let's start keeping secrets again. That never ends well.”

Sam winces at the reference, but gives in, knowing Dean's right. “It's the job,” he says reluctantly. “It's been a bad week.”

Dean nods without surprise. “Yeah, I wondered how long a guy with a brain the size of two major planets could keep doing monkeywork.”

Sam scowls. “It's not monkeywork,” he defends, even though it really is. “It's just...” his voice trails off as he tries to find a way to describe it.

Dean grins. “Monkeywork,” he finishes.

Sam glares at him. “It's just been a bad week,” he insists and Dean nods, looking unconvinced.

 

****

 

It's funny how, now that they have a whole apartment together, all the things that Dean does that used to really wind Sam up just don't seem to bother him anymore. It probably helps that, despite how small their apartment is, it's huge compared to the motel rooms that they used to stay in and gigantic compared to the front seat of the Impala. Just having his own bedroom is a luxury that Sam isn't sure he appreciates enough. If there's a late-night monster movie that Dean wants to watch, Sam doesn't have lie awake listening to the sounds of unrealistic gore and fake female terror because he can go into his bedroom, shut the door and go to sleep without waiting for Dean. The fact that he often finds himself lying awake, listening for the click of the TV going off followed by Dean's soft footsteps heading for his own room is irrelevant.

Likewise, Dean's habit of leaving dirty clothes strewn around the place is now mainly contained to his own room and is minimised by the fact that they have their own washing machine, so they can do the laundry once a week and not just whenever they have enough time and quarters to take a trip to the laundromat. Even Dean's habit of just abandoning his dirty clothes in the bathroom when he takes a shower has mainly been cured by Sam buying a laundry basket and putting it in the corner of the room. Dean's now graduated to lobbing his clothes in its general direction when he takes them off and not just dumping them on the floor, and after a lifetime of marksmanship training, he hits it ninety nine times out of a hundred.

Actually having a kitchen and cooking food, rather than getting take-out and leaving the remains in the fridge for breakfast or a snack later has dealt with the sometimes horrific things that Dean used to evolve in the fridge when they were travelling. It probably helps that Mr. Hudson made Dean go on a food safety course not long after he first started at the bakery, which left him with a tendency to spout out disturbing facts about E. coli halfway through dinner, but also meant he took to throwing out food before it had time to grow legs and leave on its own.

Living somewhere permanent instead of in a series of motels causes new issues, though. They both have a tendency to forget that there isn't a housekeeping service who'll come in and change the sheets and towels for them, and sometimes Sam finds it hard to remember exactly when Dean did last wash his sheets. Dean's room is usually a mess – clothes scattered around, print-outs of pie recipes he's found on the internet everywhere, all his tape collection strewn out across the floor in front of his stereo – but Sam's able to just shut the door and not think about it, rather than having to live in the mess.

Dean had bought a stereo after they'd been living there a few months and brought all his tapes up from the car. Somehow, it was that moment that made the reality of them living in one place indefinitely sink in for Sam, and he'd had to shut himself in his room for a while and take a few deep breaths.

Dean took to blasting out his music at a level that was okay in a car on an open highway but which reverberated throughout a small flat. Sam could hear it even when he shut himself in his room and he rather optimistically bought Dean some headphones, which never got used. He can barely remember what it was like to not have the soundtrack of his life defined by Dean's whims though and it's a reasonably accurate barometer for Dean's emotional state. For example, Sam knows that Metallica's St Anger album signifies a bad day at work with some really annoying customers, and that Sam should steer clear of him until at least The Unnamed Feeling.

Dean listens to a lot of Black Sabbath that week, but Sam doesn't think it means anything other than that Dean wants an Ozzie fix. He absent-mindedly hums along to _Changes_ and tries to work out what he'd listen to if he had a choice. All he can really decide is that it wouldn't involve any of the female singer-songwriters that Jessica used to listen to when she was overly emotional.

He spends most of the week thinking about silly things like that rather than letting his mind dwell on the kiss the way it wants to. Still, he finds himself looking at Dean's lips and thinking _I've kissed those_ once or twice, and late at night, when he's mostly asleep, his brain feels the urge to flash up random snapshots of it – the touch of Dean's tongue against his, the feel of his stubble. He still can't decide if he wants it to happen again or not, but he doesn't regret that it did, and maybe that should tell him something.

 

****

 

He leaves work early on Friday – Harry, their boss, lets them all go early in recognition that it's been a really shitty week for everyone. Sam goes home before going to the bar and finds Zeppelin I playing and Dean sacked out on his bed, fast asleep with his boots still on. Sam pauses in the doorway, watching his chest rise and fall for a few moments, then steps carefully over a discarded towel to nudge him awake.

Dean blinks his eyes open with a little frown. “What?” he asks grumpily, and Sam really wants to ruffle his hair and tease him about sleeping in the middle of the day like a kid, but instead he just leaves his hand where it is. Dean's shoulder is sleep-warm through his t-shirt. For a split second, Sam considers just crawling into the bed next to Dean and falling asleep as well, getting some of that relaxed, sleepy warmth for himself, but that's not the plan for the evening.

“You coming to the bar?” he asks. “It's Frank's birthday.”

Dean groans. “I hate Frank,” he mutters, then stretches out all his limbs. “All right, give me five minutes.”

Sam nods and lets go of his shoulder with a reluctance he's not sure how to explain, then goes into his room to change his shirt.

 

****

 

Almost everyone else is at the bar and looks to have got through a few drinks already. Dean gets them a couple of beers each to catch up and they sit down. Frank's not the most popular guy in the office by a long shot, but everyone's in the mood to cut loose tonight and the alcohol flows pretty steadily for a while. Sam and Dean drink less than everyone else – Sam's never been a heavy drinker and it seems like Dean's decided to keep pace with him rather than the others tonight. They play a couple of games of darts that Sam wins, then a pool table opens up and Sam catches Dean eyeing it.

“Want a game?” Dean asks after no one's claimed it for a few minutes. Sam hesitates, eyes glancing automatically down to Dean's hand, and Dean's mouth presses together with irritation. He hasn't really played a lot of pool since the accident – twisting his hand into the position needed to rest a cue on it tends to leave it stiff and painful afterwards, but Sam knows he misses it. It always was his favourite way to unwind, even when he wasn't hustling. “I'm sick of darts,” he adds. “You don't want to play, I'll ask one of the others.”

Sam sighs. “No need to get dramatic,” he says. “I'll play.” Dean would only wipe the floor with any of the others in a couple of minutes, after all, and that's hardly worth the dollar, or even the effort it takes to rack up.

They play for a while, until Dean's brow starts to unconsciously wrinkle with effort every time he puts his hand up to take a shot. Sam waits until the end of the game then announces that he's going back to the table. Dean nods, staring down at the felt of the table with a frown Sam pretends not to see.

“Yeah, I'm coming,” he says after a moment, then puts his cue back on the table. “Just gonna hit the head first.”

The table is a lot emptier than it had been – most people have wandered off to escape from Frank, who is even more annoying drunk than he is sober, something Sam wouldn't have believed if he hadn't seen it before. Ted and Stacey are practically sitting on top of each other at the end, flirting in the same nauseating way they do over the photocopier, and Greg and David are sitting with Frank, eyes glazed over at whatever he's going on about. As Sam sits down, Greg throws him a grateful look.

“I think I'm going to go to the bar,” he says, cutting through Frank's monologue. “Coming, David?”

“Yeah, good plan,” says David, and they both get up and leave Sam alone with Frank, which is a low move.

“Sammy!” says Frank and Sam flinches.

“It's Sam,” he corrects him for the millionth time.

“Right, right,” says Frank, but Sam can tell he's going to forget again in twenty seconds. “Hey, did I tell you about the thing with Mark from Accounting the other day?”

“Yeah, you did, actually,” says Sam. “Also, I was there when it happened.” Frank ignores him and proceeds to tell him all about it again. Sam starts to wonder exactly how it is that he's going to get Greg back for this.

Paradise City comes on the jukebox and Sam knows without looking that Dean put it on. Sure enough, a few minutes later he slides into the chair next to Sam.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says cheerfully.

“So, how come he's allowed to call you Sammy?” asks Frank, thankfully shutting up about Mark's attempt to get Frank to adhere to company policy.

“I get special privileges,” says Dean, grinning. “Plus, he can't really stop me.”

“I guess partners do get away with a lot more than most people,” says Frank. “Only one allowed to call my brother Tommy is his wife.”

Sam feels rather than sees Dean stiffen next to him. “We're not partners,” he says, wondering if he should just get it tattooed on his forehead.

“Oh, I know,” says Frank, even though he clearly doesn't. “But it's just almost the same thing, isn't it? You two are so close – you can't even go a whole day without having to meet for lunch.”

“That's not...” starts Sam, then abruptly gives up. If he hasn't got through to him in the nearly a year that they've been working together, he's not going to now. Besides, he can feel Dean vibrating with tension next to him. “Time to go home?” he suggests, and Dean nods, getting up and heading for the door without even saying goodbye to Frank.

Frank frowns after him. “He okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” lies Sam. “We've just got stuff to do tonight. See you Monday.”

“See you,” says Frank, and Sam leaves him behind with relief.

Dean's waiting for Sam just outside the bar and they walk back to the apartment in silence. Dean slumps down on the sofa as soon as they get in. Sam just looks at him for a moment, at the way he's holding his hand carefully in his lap, and knows it's more than just Frank that's pissing him off.

“Want some dinner?” he asks.

“Hell yeah,” says Dean, not opening his eyes. “Cook for me, bitch.”

Sam snorts, says “Jerk,” as is expected, then heads into the kitchen to rummage something up. After a few moments, he hears the TV click on in the other room.

He takes a couple of beers as well when he takes the food in, even though they already had a few at the bar. If you can't get gently toasted on Friday night with your brother, when can you?

Dean switches between taking long swigs and stabbing at the food with his fork, and Sam tries to keep his eyes on the TV, where a baseball game is showing, rather than staring at the lines of Dean's face in an effort to work out just how much of his funk is pain and how much is annoyance.

When he stands up to take the plates out, he catches Dean's wince as the movement of the sofa jars his hand and sighs. When he comes back, he brings the painkillers, which Dean grumpily takes.

“You should have said something,” he says, even though he knows it's just going to piss Dean off.

Sure enough, Dean flips him off. “It's fine,” he insists, and Sam grits his teeth against pointing out how much of a lie that is. There's no point in having this argument now, not when Dean's in this mood.

They watch the game for a while and Dean keeps his hand held stiffly on his lap and his lips pressed tightly against each other. After about half an hour, he makes an annoyed noise, grabs one of the cushions and puts it under his hand.

Sam takes that as an admission. “You want me to get that lotion stuff?” he asks, trying to sound as if it's not a big deal.

Dean grits his teeth together so hard that Sam can hear it, then nods tersely. “Yeah, sure,” he says as if he's doing Sam the favour.

Sam gets the lotion from the bathroom, then sits down again, closer to Dean. He takes Dean's hand carefully and takes the brace off, shifting the pillow so that Dean can rest his wrist on it, and starts to rub the lotion in, pressing his thumbs hard into the stiff lines of Dean's muscles in effort to get them to relax just that little bit more.

Dean does the usual thing he does whenever it gets bad enough for him to need Sam to do this, which is to pretend it's not happening, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the TV screen, but he can't stop the way his breathing changes as Sam starts to work out the kinks in his hand, or the occasional little half-groan when he hits a particularly sensitive spot.

By the time the ninth innings is wrapping up, Dean is relaxed back against the couch, eyes half-closed, and Sam's done about all he can for his hand. He hasn't stopped though, strangely reluctant to let Dean's hand go and have to reinstate the normal barriers between them. The game fades into post-game interviews and opinions, and neither of them moves, until Sam's starting to wonder if Dean's just fallen asleep with his eyes open.

He stops his fingers from moving and just sits for a moment, holding Dean's hand. The commentators are rambling on, but somehow it feels as if they're sitting in silence, the atmosphere so still that it seems like the whole apartment is holding its breath. He finds himself running his fingertips over the palm of Dean's hand, tracing up his lifeline and then back down his heartline in a rough circle. His skin's soft – a lot softer than it would have been before the accident, lack of use fading away his callouses. He wonders if the other hand is twice as tough in compensation, one balancing the other out.

“Frank's a dick,” says Dean, just as Sam is completely convinced he's asleep and wondering if he should get up and go do the washing up.

“We already knew that,” Sam reminds him and finally pulls himself away from touching Dean's hand. He expects Dean to move it away, but instead Dean just leaves it on the cushion, lying in Sam's lap.

“Well, I think he stumbled when they needed him most,” says the TV, “and you've got to start wondering if he's worth what they're paying him.”

Dean picks up the remote with his good hand and turns it off, and the silence in the apartment is like a thick, heavy blanket.

“I should clean up dinner,” says Sam and it breaks the moment. Dean finally moves his hand and starts putting his brace back on, and Sam pushes himself upright and heads into the kitchen.

 

****

 

After the kitchen is as clean as he can make it and he's blocked out all his thoughts with the routine of washing dishes and wiping a cloth along the surfaces, he stands for a moment, looking out the window. He watches an old couple walk up the street, the woman gesturing with her hands to emphasise whatever she's saying, and he wonders for split-second if that's how he and Dean will end up. It's a happier ending than he had expected while they were hunting – and a lot further away than he thinks either of them have ever expected. He reins his thoughts in and looks down at the floor instead, wondering if he should mop it.

Dean comes in and opens the fridge, pulling out a couple of beers. “You planning on spending the whole night cleaning?” he asks, amused. “Cos you know that would officially make you the lamest guy I know, right?” He opens the beers on the bottle opener that Sam fixed to the wall next to the fridge back when they first moved in and he was desperately trying to make sure there was nothing Dean would need any help with. “I'm gonna put The Curse Of The Mummy's Tomb on.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Isn't there something on that doesn't involve sets you can see wobbling?” he asks, but it's half-hearted at best.

Dean just grins at him. “Nope,” he says, and holds out the second beer to him. “Come on, you know it's awesome.”

Sam steps forward to take the beer and their fingertips brush over the bottle in a way that's so cliché that Sam would feel ashamed if he wasn't suddenly so close to Dean that he can feel his warmth, watching the way that Dean's eyes focus in on his face and then flick down to his mouth. There's an awkwardly long pause in which Sam waits for Dean to move away and head out to the sitting room, but Dean doesn't move.

“Dean,” says Sam uncertainly, not sure what he's going to follow it up with, and Dean finally moves. He makes a slightly annoyed noise in his throat, then leans forward and presses his lips against Sam's.

Sam can't help kissing back, their mouths moving together as if this is a dance they've practised a thousand times. He's holding his arms out awkwardly, one hand still holding the beer bottle, and just as he's thinking of putting it down and pulling Dean close against him, the kiss ends with Dean stepping back awkwardly.

“Uh,” he says, and Sam's even more confused when he notices that Dean's checks are flushed slightly. What the hell just happened? It's almost a relief when he notices Dean's clenched jaw and recognises the hard look in his eyes as 'pissed off with himself.'

“I'll put that movie on,” Dean says in a rush, then disappears out of the kitchen.

Sam watches him go, fingers clenched tightly around the bottle. No way in hell they can just write this off as a fluke, not when it's happened twice. He lets out a long breath, relaxes his fingers, and goes to join his brother.

 

****

 

Sam is pretty sure that Dean's not taking in any more of the film than he is, but they both sit in silence while the Mummy lurches around the screen. Their beer bottles seem to empty pretty quickly and Sam gets them refills. Dean thanks him without meeting his eyes and takes a long gulp, and Sam collapses back onto the sofa with a sigh he's not sure he manages to cover.

By the time the Mummy is threatening the shrieking female lead, they've had another couple, and Sam is starting to really feel the effects of a whole evening spent drinking. Dean is too, if the way he's sprawled out on the sofa is any indication, legs spread wide and his good hand holding his beer between them.

The leading lady screams again before fainting dead away and Dean makes an amused noise, then lets his legs fall even wider open until his knee is touching Sam's. Sam tenses, waiting for Dean to react, but he just leaves his leg there. After a moment, Sam finds himself pressing back, shifting slightly closer.

It's late when the end credits finally roll and Dean flicks the TV off. Sam waits for him to say something short and then disappear into his room to avoid the awkward, but he doesn't move, his knee still pressed tight against Sam's.

“Frank's not wrong, though,” Dean says quietly, as if he's just talking to himself and it's a mere accident that Sam's close enough to hear. “I mean, we're all settled down in one place now, got no reason not to have relationships and quit hanging around each other all the time. And yet...”

He doesn't finish the thought, but Sam doesn't need him to. “Seems like you're always going to be the most important person in my life,” he says, just as quietly. As soon as he says it, he wonders if he's gone too far, but Dean just half-nods, then claps his hand down on Sam's knee.

“You go to bed, I'll get these bottles and lock up.”

Sam nods and shuffles off to his room, where he barely manages to pull his clothes off before collapsing onto the bed. Maybe things will make more sense when he wakes up.

 

****

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v95/flawedamythyst/Fic/?action=view&current=JADpieclipart.jpg)

****


	3. Pie In The Sky

****

 

The next morning, Sam sets out to keep out of Dean’s way as much as he can, just until they can both repress the events of the previous night enough to pretend that they were no big deal. He’s given up on ‘it never happened’ completely, but he's thinking he might still be able to convince himself that it didn't really mean anything.

He tidies up his room, puts some laundry on and just generally finds little things to do that mean he isn’t in the main living areas of the apartment, where Dean might pass through. Dean stays in his room as well, blasting AC/DC through the wall until Sam finds himself humming along.

Sam is hanging up laundry in his room, thinking about maybe having some lunch and then going grocery shopping, getting out of the apartment entirely, when the music comes to an abrupt stop and Dean emerges from his room. Sam’s door is half-open, and Dean pauses by it and knocks on the doorframe.

“I’m going to take the Impala out,” he says. “Make sure she doesn’t get fat and lazy.”

Sam nods. “Try not to break all the traffic laws.”

“You could come with me, and bitch every time I go a mile over the limit,” offers Dean, and Sam looks up from his clothes, surprised. He’d figured that going for a drive was Dean’s way of putting some distance between them, just like Sam’s was to bury himself in domestic chores.

“All my bitching never makes you slow down,” he points out.

Dean shrugs. “Your outraged-and-alarmed face is just too funny,” he says.

Sam glances back at his laundry. “Give me five minutes to finish this,” he says. “We can stop at a grocery store on the way back.”

Dean nods, knocks his fist against the frame, and disappears again.

 

****

 

It’s another sunny day and Sam had forgotten how nice it was to just drive through the countryside with no destination or real aim. He watches the mile markers flash by and wonders just how many miles of tarmac he’s driven over in his life, only to end up right here where it feels like he's always been, sitting in the passenger seat while Dean drives too fast and hums along to Blue Öyster Cult. When they'd first settled down here, and before, when he'd first been at Stanford, he'd felt displaced for a while, lost without a spot on the horizon to aim for. It feels like his whole life has been a Kerouac novel and stopping in one place makes him feel edgy, like he's forgotten to do something. He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye and thinks that he'd take his Dean over Kerouac's any day.

He relaxes back into the seat, head resting against the window, and wonders idly if he should point out that the limit changed to 55 two miles back. Dean looks over at him for a moment, then back at the road.

“You always did fall asleep best in the car,” he says. “When you were a baby, I used to think Dad drove us around so much just to get you to nod off and be quiet for a while.”

“I'm not falling asleep,” protests Sam.

Dean snorts in disbelief. “Sure,” he says. “Well, it was a late night last night for an old dude like you. Way past nine.”

“You're older than me,” Sam points out, annoyed.

“Not mentally, dude. You've been an old man since you were a kid.”

Sam's not sure how to take that. He frowns to himself and turns his head back to the passing landscape. He is starting to feel a bit drowsy, but he's not going to mention that to Dean. He's just going to ignore him and work out what they should get at the store later. They're passing a fence, and all the posts are blurring together into one, an endless dark line cutting across the green of the field behind it.

 

****

 

When Sam wakes up, Dean's shaking his leg gently. “C'mon, time to wake up.”

Sam opens his eyes and squints against the sunlight. They're in a diner parking lot. “I wasn't asleep,” he lies.

Dean just laughs. “Course not, old man,” he says.

“It's been a bad week at work,” Sam excuses himself, pulling himself upright.

“It's always a bad week at work,” says Dean, which is roughly when Sam realises that Dean's hand is still on his leg.

“Where are we?” he asks, trying to cover his confusion.

Dean shrugs. “Somewhere,” he says, unhelpfully. “Figured it was time for food.”

The diner is just like a million other roadside diners that they've been in. They both order with little more than a glance at the menu and when the food comes, Sam knows what it will taste like before he puts it in his mouth. He wonders if there's a reason for Dean to take them on a nostalgia tour of their previous life and glances up, intending to ask. Dean's squinting out of the window at the Impala, checking on her even though it's been less than quarter of an hour since they left her, and Sam suddenly has the most disorientating sensation of deja vu, of having lived through this moment a million times before. He blinks against it and focuses down on his food instead of speaking.

“You need a new job,” announces Dean, halfway through his burger.

Sam snorts. “Not a whole load of jobs around for guys with faked resumes,” he points out.

Dean shrugs that away. “You can't stay where you are,” he says. “It's making you all stressed and grouchy. And I'm sick of having to spend time with Frank.”

“You don't have to come to the bar with us,” Sam says, feeling a little stung. Dean makes a face of _do I really need to answer that_ , and then goes back to concentrating on his burger.

They head back home after lunch. Dean's tapping on the steering wheel just slightly faster than the beat of the music, which Sam knows means he's thinking something through, or psyching himself up for something. Sam leaves him to it and watches the scenery slide past again, in the opposite direction.

They're only about ten minutes outside of town when Dean finally speaks. “How attached are you to this place?” he asks.

Sam frowns at him. “Not incredibly,” he says. “It's just like any other town.”

Dean nods. “We ended up here pretty much at random,” he says, “but if we're going to be staying somewhere for the long-haul, seems like we have more choices than just one place.”

“Our jobs are here,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, well, I been thinking,” says Dean. “Not sure working for someone else is really my thing. I like being my own boss. And your job just sucks.”

“I take it you have a plan then,” says Sam, settling back against the door so that he can watch Dean.

Dean shrugs. “I was thinking we could open our own pie place. I've got enough baking experience now, and you're geeky enough to be able to handle all the money shit and the dull stuff like that. We could find some small town, somewhere we actually like, do it all properly.”

Sam stares at his brother, not quite sure how to reply. It's clear this is something Dean's been thinking about, and yet he had no idea, would never have guessed that Dean gave any thought to the future beyond where the next beer or pie was coming from.

Dean twitches slightly at Sam's silence. “Just a thought,” he says defensively, even though Sam can tell that it's more than that.

“We'd need money to set it up,” he says, his mind already starting to work. The idea of having their own business, something they can work at together again, appeals a lot more than he would have thought.

“I mentioned it to Bobby,” replies Dean, relaxing now that it's clear Sam isn't going to shoot down the idea immediately. “And he said he could lend us some.”

Sam frowns at that. “We can't take money from him,” he says.

“He's practically family,” Dean points out. “And he said that if we needed it, there was no reason for him to be sitting on it.”

Sam keeps frowning but he can't really argue with that, beyond 'Winchesters don't take charity,' and that's the kind of thing that Dad would have said. “Whereabouts were you thinking?” he asks instead.

Dean shrugs. “Somewhere closer to Bobby,” he says. “Somewhere with real seasons – I hate this sunny-all-the-time thing.”

“Somewhere small,” adds Sam. “But not too small. And not too rural.”

“Right,” agrees Dean. “Nowhere we're going to get frowned at for having a few beers.”

Sam's mind flicks back to last night, to what having a few beers led to. “We could even set up new identities for it,” he says hesitantly. “Ones that have us as brothers, so we don't get shit from guys like Frank.”

“We're not moving anywhere that has someone like Frank,” says Dean firmly, then he hesitates. His hand flexes on his leg for a moment before he shakes his head sharply. “Nah, not worth it. I'm okay with how things are.”

Sam nods but can't think of anything to say. Dean turns his head just enough to catch his eye and they just look at each other for a moment, while Sam wonders exactly what Dean meant by that.  
  
After a couple of moments, Dean clears his throat. “Grocery store?” he suggests and Sam nods. They don't speak on the way back in to town, but Sam feels energised, his mind bursting with the possibilities of Dean's idea.

 

****

 

Dean brings lemon meringue pie to Sam's work on Monday. It's Sam's favourite, but Dean hardly ever makes it – something about meringue being too annoying to make, which Sam translates as it being one of the few things that Dean can't adapt to doing with only one hand. While Sam eats it, Dean tells him he'd spoken to his boss about opening his own place and he'd been really helpful.

“Gave me loads of tips on what not to do, how to get the right suppliers, all of that,” he says. “He said that when we have a business plan, he'll look it over for us.”

Sam blinks and glances over at Dean. Somehow, he'd never thought he'd hear the words 'business plan' come out of Dean's mouth without it being part of some joke, and now he's talking about them having to write one. That, all on its own, makes Sam realise just how serious Dean is about this.

“I can go to the library after work,” he says, half to himself. “Get some books out on starting a small business.”

Dean grins. “Geek,” he says fondly.

Sam rolls his eyes. “No point in rushing in to something like this without the right preparation.”

“Right,” says Dean, still grinning. “Nothing to do with you getting library withdrawal symptoms after so long without any research.”

“One of us needs to know something about running a business,” Sam says defensively, “And it's clearly not going to be you.”

Dean shrugs. “I make pies,” he points out. “Can't have a pie shop without pies. And my pies are awesome.”

Sam looks down at the empty tub that had held the lemon meringue pie. “Yeah,” he agrees. Dean's grin grows even wider and he slaps his hand down on Sam's knee.

“Well, if I've won you over, the rest of the world should be easy,” he says. “You always were the fussiest little bitch about your food.” He squeezes Sam's knee and Sam suddenly realises how closely they've been sitting, legs pressed together despite the space on the bench either side of them. He glances up at Dean's face, expecting him to notice and move apart, but Dean doesn't do anything, just stays where he is, eyes fixed on Sam's face as if he's waiting for a reaction.

Sam takes a breath, feeling his shoulder rub against Dean's. “We lived off cold spaghettios for days at a time,” he points out. “I think I was entitled to want more.” This whole thing is too fragile for him to say anything about it – not out in the open here, and not before he's properly gauged exactly what's going on, what Dean's thinking. The kiss from Friday night flits through his brain for the thousandth time, and for a split second he's tempted to find out what Dean's reaction would be if he did it again, especially when Dean just keeps smiling, eyes lit up with more than just old memories.

“Well, now you can have pie every day,” he says. “Different flavour every meal. That'll keep you happy.”

“I'll have a heart attack by the time I'm 35,” says Sam. “I think I'll pass.”

Dean shrugs, and sits back slightly. “Still fussy,” he says with fake resignation. The sun catches on the skin of his cheeks, making the scattered freckles stand out against the glow of it. Sam watches for a moment, fascinated, then pulls his eyes away.

“I should get back,” he says. Dean nods and starts packing up their lunch.

“I'm going to do some research of my own,” he says. “Google a few towns, see if I can find somewhere that looks right for us that doesn't already have a pie shop.”

Sam pauses briefly outside the door to his office and Dean pats his elbow, then holds on to it for a moment, thumb pressed into the crook hard enough for Sam to be acutely aware of its exact placement. “Keep your head up,” he says. “Just think – not long now, and you'll be handing your notice in.”

Sam smiles. “Oh yeah,” he says. “And then I can start to get my revenge on Frank.”

“Fish in his desk drawer,” proposes Dean immediately, which Sam could have predicted. “It's the Winchester way.”

“That, and shooting him with rock salt,” points out Sam. “That might get me arrested, though.”

“And you're too pretty for jail,” says Dean, letting Sam's arm go. “Stick to the dead fish.”

“Maybe,” says Sam. “See you later, Dean.” He finally pulls himself away to go inside, wondering what the hell is going on and why he isn't more freaked out by the whole thing. Somehow, it all just seems like a natural progression, like he's always been waiting for it to fall into place.

 

****

 

He arrives home that night with a pile of books and a new sense of just how tough this is going to be.

“Do you know that less than half of new businesses survive four years?” he asks, dumping the books on the coffee table.

Dean appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame. “We're Winchesters,” he says, as if that answers all the problems they're going to have. “When do we ever fail at anything? Besides, it's pie, Sammy. Everyone loves pie.”

“Oh, great,” says Sam. “I'll just write that on the business plan, then.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You worry too much – if you have a heart attack, it'll be that, not the pie, that's to blame.” He heads back into the kitchen. “I made lasagne.”

Lasagne? That seems a bit healthy for a Dean-cooked meal. Sam follows Dean into the kitchen, and finds the usual mess that accompanies Dean cooking anything. The table's already laid, though, two settings carefully laid out opposite each other and kept tidy of all the dirty utensils and scattered bits of pasta. They don't usually eat at the table – it feels more familiar to slump on the couch, food on their laps and the TV on, like it had been when they'd lived in motel rooms.

“Beer's in the fridge,” Dean says pointedly after Sam's been just watching him for a couple of minutes. Sam pulls out a couple of bottles and opens them, setting one down by Dean's side and taking a swig from the other.

“Is there some special occasion I missed?” he asks, slightly hesitantly.

Dean grins at him. “You had an excuse to finally get back in a library and drown yourself in dusty old books,” he says. “If that's not worth celebrating, I don't know what is.”

 

****

 

The lasagne is surprisingly good – Dean’s non-pie-related cooking skills are often a bit hit-and-miss, especially when it’s the kind of food he doesn’t usually care about, like lasagne. Afterwards, Sam cleans up while Dean sits and watches him, continuing the conversation that they’d been having all through dinner and having another beer.

“Come on, Sammy, it’s got to be red.”

“Green,” says Sam firmly. “Maybe blue.”

Dean rolls his eyes as if Sam’s being ridiculous. “We want it to look traditional, right?” he says. “Welcoming – it’s got to be red.”

“It’ll look samey,” disagrees Sam, “and kinda garish.” He leans the last dish on the draining board and wipes his hands, turning around.

Dean half-laughs. “Man, I can’t believe we’re actually arguing about the colour of the décor, like a couple of girls.”

Sam grins back. “You started it,” he points out.

Dean just rolls his eyes, and stands up to go into the sitting room. “Well, it’s one of the first things that people notice,” he says defensively.

Sam follows him into the other room and they sit down on the couch. “Won’t matter what colour everything is, once they eat one of your pies,” he says. “That’s what’ll make people come back.”

“They are pretty awesome,” agrees Dean, turning on the TV and starting to flick through the channels. He settles on some faked docu-drama about Bigfoot. “Hey, look! A show about you, Sasquatch.”

Sam gives a long-suffering sigh. “Better a sasquatch than a hobbit,” he mutters.

 

****

 

“Hey, Sammy,” says Dean several hours later. They’re still on the sofa, sitting as close as they were on the park bench earlier, and Sam is itchingly aware of every breath Dean takes and every tiny movement he makes. “You really think my pies are that good?”

“I wouldn’t have agreed to this plan if I didn’t,” says Sam. He’s always surprised when Dean shows some sign of being insecure about something that’s important to him, even though he knows that a lot of Dean’s brash self-confidence is faked. He turns to look at Dean and their closeness makes him blink and wonder if he should move back.

Dean stares at him for a long moment and his gaze holds Sam still where he is. Slowly, as if giving Sam every chance to back away, Dean brings his good hand up and cups it around Sam’s face, rubbing his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone. Sam can’t breath for a moment, heart trapped in his ribcage, and then they both move in at the same time, lips meeting like the shifting of tectonic plates.

There’s something almost tentative about Dean’s kiss, but Sam takes control and turns it into something wilder and more serious. If Dean pulls away again, runs off to hide in his room, Sam wants to have taken every chance he can first. He slides his hand around Dean’s neck, holding him close. Instead of flinching back, Dean just turns into it, moving his body until their chests are pressed together. He slides his hand down from Sam’s neck to his back, then further down, hooking his fingers into Sam’s belt loops and tugging him even closer.

Sam’s not sure how long they kiss for. In the background the TV drones on but Sam has no idea what show is on, or even if it’s the same one they were watching before they started this. All he knows is the taste of Dean’s mouth, the way he moves his tongue against Sam’s almost lazily, as if they have all the time in the world. They’ve shifted so that Dean is leaning back against the arm of the sofa and Sam is pressed close on top of him, between his spread legs. He can feel Dean’s cock pressed against his stomach, half-hard, and knowing that this is turning Dean on is making him feel almost as giddy as the touch of Dean’s hand against the skin of his back.

Sam slowly slides his hand down Dean’s side, feeling the curve of his ribs through his thin shirt, and the way his stomach muscles twitch as Sam’s fingers pass over them. He reaches the rough denim of Dean’s jeans and hesitates, not sure if this is going too far, but he really wants to touch, to feel the evidence of Dean’s arousal in his hand. He reaches further down, to the hardening line of Dean’s cock, and rubs his hand over it.

Dean pulls away at that, finally breaking their kiss, and takes hold of Sam’s wrist, tugging his hand up and away. Sam curses himself for going too far and breaking the moment.

“Dean,” he starts, but Dean interrupts him.

“Sammy,” he says and smiles, his whole face lighting up with happiness and satisfaction. For a moment, Sam can do nothing more than stare at him, wondering why they hadn’t done this before if it made Dean smile like that. Dean leans up and presses a soft kiss to Sam’s mouth, then puts his hand on his chest and pushes him away. “I’m going to bed.”

He extricates himself from Sam and heads off to his room, leaving Sam on the couch staring after him.

 

****

 

Sam's not sure how to act the next morning. In the light of day, making out with Dean on the couch like a pair of teenagers seems like a dream, tinged with an air of fantasy. He's not sure if Dean will be back to pretending nothing weird is going on with them, or if something major shifted last night, something that will have lasting repercussions.

Breakfast leaves him none the wiser. Dean grins when Sam comes in and has coffee for him, same as always, but his hand brushes against Sam's as he hands the mug over, and he taps his foot against Sam's when they're sitting at the table. He doesn't mention last night, though, and they don't kiss again before Dean has to rush off to work.

Sam's not sure if he should be making the next move, or if he should wait and see what Dean does to avoid freaking him out. He spends the morning at work going over it all in his head, over-thinking everything between them until he gets a headache, and he still doesn't have any answers. The only thing he's sure of is that he wants this – wants Dean, more than anything, and he'll do whatever it takes to get it.

Dean brings lunch as usual and they eat it in the park. Dean talks about his day, about the sweet Mustang he saw on his way over, about anything but what happened last night, and Sam just goes with it, all too aware of how close to his work they are and how quickly his lunch hour will go past. As Dean leaves, he steps close to Sam and for a moment Sam is certain that he's going to kiss him, but instead he just pats Sam's shoulder slightly awkwardly.

“See you later, Sammy,” he says. As he heads back inside, Sam thinks that he's clearly not the only one who doesn't know what to do with this thing, and it makes him feel better. He thinks back over the last few weeks and months and thinks that they've been moving towards this for a long time, without either of them realising it. It's all just starting to fall into place, but there's no reason to push it. It'll all happen in its own time, after all, and there's no rush.

 

****

 

When Sam gets home from work, Dean's sitting on the couch, frowning at the laptop, but he glances up and smiles when Sam comes in.

“I'm thinking we don't want to be right on top of Bobby,” he says. “A few hours' drive, right?”

Sam thought for a moment. If they were going to be making out on occasion, maybe more, he didn't want Bobby to be close enough to just turn up unannounced. “Yeah,” he agreed, sitting down next to Dean so that he could see the screen.

Dean nodded, turning back to the laptop. “I'm thinking Nebraska or Iowa,” he said. “Or Minnesota, I guess.”

Sam made a face. “Do we really want to put up with Minnesota winters?”

“God, no,” says Dean and he closes a couple of the windows cluttering up the laptop screen. “Here, let me show you what I've been looking at.” His bad hand is on his lap, tucked against his stomach, but as he opens a few of the windows to show Sam the places he's been looking at, he moves it to Sam's thigh, occasionally tapping it to emphasise something he's saying. Sam smiles to himself and, after a while, finds the courage to cover it with his own hand. Dean pauses for a fraction of a second in what he's saying, then continues as if nothing has happened.

They order take out and Sam settles down properly with the books he'd gotten from the library the day before, making careful notes on what they needed to do to get this off the ground. The sheer volume of work involved daunts him for a minute, until he remembers that they're Winchesters and if they could defeat Hell then they can definitely handle a pie shop.

Dean goes to bed while Sam's still frowning over it all, ruffling Sam's hair and calling him a geek as he goes. “Don't stay up with this all night.”

“I won't,” Sam promises. “Just this last chapter.”

Dean snorts. “That's what you used to say when you were a kid as well.” His fingers trail across the back of Sam's neck for a moment, then he pulls away. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” returns Sam, already turning back to his book.

 

****

 

He doesn't sleep well that night. He finds himself tossing and turning, mind still running on overtime and see-sawing between all the work that opening the pie shop will take and this thing with Dean. He drifts off a few times only to find himself awake again an hour or so later, blinking up at the black of ceiling. His dreams are fractured as well, weird montages of searching through motels and forests for Dean, or running from unknown monsters, knowing that Dean's sliced up body lies behind him.

He jerks awake for the fourth time with his heart in his mouth, the images of his dream still running through his head, and sits up. He's not getting anywhere with this tonight. He looks around the room blankly, then gives up fighting what he really wants to do and gets up.

Dean's room is brighter than his, light from the street filtering through the curtains. Dean's asleep, sprawled on his back, and Sam just watches him for a while, letting the even tone of Dean's breathing calm him down. Just as he's thinking of heading back to his own bed, Dean shifts sharply, his hand clenching at nothing. Sam hesitates, not sure what to do, and Dean shifts again, turning his head and letting out a low noise.

Sam moves without considering it further, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder and shaking him awake. “Wake up,” he whispers into the silence of the night. “Dean. Wake up.”

Dean wakes up with start, then lies incredibly still for a moment, all his muscles tensed, before he sighs and relaxes back. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters and sits up, rubbing his good hand over his face.

“Nightmare?” Sam asks.

Dean grunts rather than reply, then frowns at him. “Sammy? What are you doing here?”

Sam shrugs and sits down on the edge of the bed. “I haven't been sleeping so well tonight either,” he admits.

Dean snorts and shakes his head wordlessly. His hand finds Sam's leg in the dark, holding on just slightly too tightly, as if he's still trying to anchor himself in the real world and not in his nightmare. Sam takes hold of his wrist in return, feeling Dean's warm skin under his grip, and their eyes meet. All Sam can see of Dean's is a tiny bright spark, reflected from the lights outside the window, but he can hear Dean's breathing change, and then they're moving towards each other, Sam's hand sliding up Dean's arm to his bicep just as their mouths meet.

There's something slightly desperate in Dean's kiss and Sam sets about smoothing that away, pouring the calm he's picked up from watching Dean's sleeping body and all the affection he'll never put into words into the way he kisses, still stroking his hand over Dean's arm. Dean grabs at Sam's shoulder with his good hand, pulling him in closer, and it seems so easy to push him back down onto the bed and press their bodies together. He's so ready to just give in to this thing, this thing that's clearly not going away and that maybe they really should talk about, but not right now, not while Dean's body is so warm and welcoming under Sam's and his mouth is hot and wet, moving just right, so that Sam can feel himself beginning to get hard.

“Come here,” mutters Dean, pushing Sam back a bit and then trying to awkwardly pull the covers out from between them with one hand. “Come on.”

Sam helps him, tugging them out of the way and settling back over Dean's body, nothing separating them but t-shirts and boxers. Dean runs his hand into Sam's hair, pulling him close, and Sam realises he can feels Dean's erection pressed against his hip. In the darkness, with nothing in the air except the quickening pace of their breathing and the slide of their bodies together, it's so easy for him to reach down and touch it, feel the hard line under Dean's boxers. A tingling thrill goes down his spine at the thought that it's for him, that he's the one making Dean feel like this, just as Dean lets out a shocked gasp and pushes up into Sam's hand.

“Sammy,” he whispers, so low that Sam can barely hear him, and then he's pulling at Sam's t-shirt with his good hand, trying to get it off. One-handed, he can do little more than just tug it up to Sam's ribcage, so Sam pulls back and does it for him. Dean huffs out a frustrated breath, and Sam can see his bad hand flexing slightly, so he leans in and kisses it away. Dean wraps both his arms around Sam, his bad hand holding Sam close while the other traces over the shape of his shoulder blades, and down the line of his spine.

Sam moves down to kiss Dean’s neck, sucking a mark into the soft skin just under his ear, and then trailing a line down to his collarbone. Dean’s making tiny noises in the back of his throat and it’s so unbearable sexy that Sam has to pause for a moment and take a deep breath before sitting back so he can tug Dean’s shirt off. It’s too dark in the room for him to really be able to see what Dean looks like spread out on the bed, but he can see the light reflecting off his skin and the strong lines of his chest.

“Dean,” he says quietly, running a hand down Dean’s chest to his stomach, caught in the illicit thrill of how wrong this should be and yet all he wants is more. “Dean, is this okay?”

Dean snorts, his muscles jumping under Sam’s hand. “If it wasn’t,” he says, “I’d have kicked you in the balls by now.”

Sam laughs and leans back down to kiss him again, relishing the feel of their skin pressed together. It’s ridiculously late and they both have work tomorrow that they should be getting some sleep for, but somehow Sam can’t shake the feeling that they have all the time in the world, that there’s nothing left for either of them to do but to kiss and touch and move against each other in a slow, lazy rhythm.

It seems to go on forever, both of them getting harder and harder but without any sense of urgency to it. Sam wants to feel like this forever, wants to always have Dean’s harsh, ragged breathing in his ear, the film of sweat between them making their bodies slide together effortlessly while Sam leaves more marks on Dean’s neck and shoulders, covering him with the evidence that this happened so that they can’t hide from it tomorrow.

It’s Dean who makes the next move, flipping them around so that he’s on top instead of Sam, and then tugging at the edge of Sam’s boxers.

“Want to touch you,” he says hoarsely, and Sam can only nod his agreement, lifting his hips so that Dean can get rid of his underwear. Dean’s hand on his cock feels just right, and Sam lets out a moan, twitching up into Dean’s grip.

Dean grins. “Just let me,” he says and then stops any reply Sam could make with his mouth, kissing him just as thoroughly as he’s stroking his cock, until Sam’s shaking apart with the dual sensations, need coursing through him like a drug, kicking everything up a gear. It feels like Sam’s coming apart even before he comes, Dean’s hand and mouth pulling away everything inside him until all that’s left is desperate lust.

“Fuck, Dean,” he gasps just as his orgasm hits him, and then there’s nothing for a couple of moments, nothing but Dean.

“Sam,” says Dean, kissing at his neck while Sam struggles to get his breath back. “Sammy.”

“Dean,” replies Sam, and he runs his hands down Dean’s back to his ass, gripping tightly and pulling him close. He can still feel Dean’s erection, so he slides his hand inside Dean’s boxers and around his hip to his cock, taking a firm grip and hoping like hell that jerking another guy off isn’t that different from jerking himself off.

It is different – very different. The angle is weird so that his wrist begins to ache, and he can’t get used to how different Dean’s cock feels to his own, but the biggest difference is how much hotter it is to have his hand on Dean like this, how incredibly sexy Dean looks with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath coming out in ragged bursts, thrusting into Sam’s hand and bowing his head until their foreheads are resting together. Just before he comes, Dean opens his eyes and there’s just enough light for Sam to see the look in them, blown away and surprised all at the same time, and then he forces out a moan and come slicks up Sam’s hand and both their stomachs.

He collapses down on top of Sam and they lie still for a long moment, during which Sam can’t stop himself smiling. It feels like he should be starting to have regrets, or be freaking out, or something, but all he wants to do is close his eyes and fall asleep with Dean pressed against him like this.

After a minute or so, Dean lets out a long breath and moves off Sam, sliding onto his side on the bed next to him. “Bet we sleep real well now,” he says.

Sam laughs tiredly. “Maybe we should just skip straight to having sex next time we can’t sleep,” he suggests, slightly tentatively, hoping he’s not about to mess this up.

“Why wait till then?” asks Dean, and Sam turns his head to grin at him. Dean smiles back and kisses him softly, then uses his sheet to wipe them both clean and settles down again, clearly getting ready for sleep.

“If you’re going to leave,” says Dean, his eyes shutting, “do it now before I’m asleep and you wake me up.”

Sam considers for a long moment. “Figure I’ll stay,” he says. “After all, the nightmares might come back.”

Dean snorts. “Right,” he agrees. His hand creeps over to Sam’s arm and holds loosely onto his wrist.

 

****

 

Two months later, they find the perfect place for their pie shop, an old diner with an apartment above it. Sam works all the sums out and decides that they have enough to buy and renovate it, and they drive down one weekend and go round it with an EMF reader, just in case. Sam hands his notice in, trying not to grin too much when his boss says they’ll all miss him.

The weekend before they move, Sam’s work colleagues take them both out for a drink.

“After all,” says David, “We’ve seen so much of Dean that it’s almost like we worked with him as well.”

They go to the same bar that they always go to, and Sam thinks to himself that he’s really not going to miss the place. When the waitress, a pretty brunette called Kelly that Dean has been flirting with on-and-off since they first came here, hears that they’re leaving, she brings them over a couple of beers.

“On the house,” she says, smiling at Dean as she sets them down and leaning over just a little too far, so that he can see right down her top. “After all, you’ve been such good customers.” She winks at Dean, then walks away with her hips swinging. Sam thinks it’s a bit overdone, but then she has been after Dean for over a year. She’s exactly the type Dean always goes for – it’s only that he has a firm policy of not sleeping with the staff at places they intend to go back to that’s stopped him.

Greg whistles. “Man, you could totally tap that tonight.”

Dean shrugs. “Got better things to do,” he says and unsubtly puts his hand on Sam’s knee. Sam has to duck his head to hide his flush as the others all turn their heads to stare at him and Dean.

“I knew it!” says Frank triumphantly. Sam kinda wants to punch him in the face.

“Seriously?” asks David incredulously. “After all this time?”

It’s Sam’s turn to shrug. “We had some stuff to work through first,” he says, and leaves it at that.

 

****

 

When they move into the pie shop, there’s still a lot of work to be done. Sam finds himself spending hours shut in the office they set up next to the kitchen, still trying to get his head around all the new things he needs to learn. Dean unpacks their stuff into the apartment, making up the biggest bed they can find into the master bedroom and unpacking all their hunting books into the second one.

“No sense in keeping them boxed up any more,” he says. “Besides, other hunters might want to come by and use them.”

Sam looks around at the room, which resembles a tidier version of Bobby’s house, and nods. “I guess there’s no reason for us to completely retire, if we can still help people,” he agrees.

The next day, he’s back in the office, trying to decide if he can bring himself to employ a waitress who apostrophises plurals. After all, it’s not relevant to what they’d be hiring her for, but at the same time, it’s the principle of the thing. Just as he’s deciding that having customer service ‘skill’s’ trumps being literate, Dean pops his head round the door with a grin.

“Come and have some of the first pie cooked in our shop,” he says and Sam happily abandons the application forms in favour of following Dean into the kitchen. There's the usual mess of flour everywhere and Sam wonders if he's going to have to find money to hire someone just to clean up after Dean.

“Check it out,” says Dean proudly, gesturing at a cooling pie on a rack. It has a devil's trap carefully baked into the crust and Sam rolls his eyes.

“You're worried we'll get demons as customers?” he asks.

“Never hurts to be too careful,” says Dean, getting out a knife and cutting two large slices.

“If we serve pies that look like that,” Sam points out, “everyone will think we're Satanists. Not sure that's going to pull in the crowds.”

Dean puts the slices on two plates. “Guess I'll just keep it for the hunters that come in then,” he shrugs.

It's cherry pie, rich and nearly too sweet. There's no cutlery in the kitchen yet and neither of them are willing to go up to the apartment to grab a couple of forks, so they eat it with their fingers, red juice spilling down their hands. Sam licks a long line of it up from his wrist, then glances up to see Dean staring at him, the remnants of his own pie forgotten and a dark look in his eyes that Sam recognises instantly by now. He grins at his brother and licks up another streak, deliberately flicking his tongue around his thumb.

Dean makes a grunting noise. “Tease,” he accuses and Sam just smiles happily.

“You love it,” he says.

Dean's eyes narrow. He flicks his wrist and some of the filling from his slice of pie flies out, hitting Sam squarely in the face.

“Hey!” protests Sam, wiping at it and probably only smearing it across more of his face. “Jerk!”

Dean grins unrepentantly. “Bitch,” he says and Sam glares at him. He moves fast, grabbing Dean's chin and holding him still so that he can smear the remains of his pie across Dean's face, pastry crumbling against his skin and getting caught in his stubble.

“Son of a bitch,” growls Dean, and it's on. Pie goes everywhere as they wrestle, wiped across faces and clothes. Sam grabs what's left in the dish and forces it down Dean's shirt, trapping him against the work surface as he presses it into his skin, making sure that it's firmly smeared against his chest and stomach. Dean retaliates by shoving the remnants of his slice down Sam's pants, breathlessly laughing as Sam jerks back, away from his hand. Pastry crumbles into Sam's underwear, and he makes a face.

“Oh, gross, man,” he says. Dean grins unrepentantly, then kisses him, pulling his head down.

“Guess we'll just have to take a shower,” he suggests, then licks at some of the pie on Sam's face. Sam's cock hardens immediately, twitching against the pastry.

“Maybe later,” says Sam. He kisses Dean again, holding him back against the surface so that he can lick away all the taste of pie in his mouth. “I kinda want to fuck you right here first.”

“Well, come on then,” challenges Dean with a grin. He has pastry clinging to his eyebrow and Sam can't resist mouthing it off, licking along his brow to catch every crumb. Dean tips his head back beneath Sam's mouth, letting out an exhale of air against Sam's neck.

Undoing Dean's shirt results in a shower of pastry crumbs and Sam can't help laughing. “You're kind of a mess, dude,” he says. There are red cherries streaking Dean's skin, the juice standing out brightly, and he can't resist ducking his head to lick it up. “Tastes even better like this,” he adds.

“Maybe I won't need a shower after all,” says Dean, in a voice that's starting to get breathless. “Just get you to lick it all up.”

Sam laughs again and licks another long line up his brother's chest. “Oh, you're definitely going to need a shower when I've finished with you,” he promises, pushing Dean's shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor. Dean grins and slides his good hand into Sam's belt loops, tugging him close between his legs and kissing him again.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, his hand slipping up under Sam's shirts to stroke over his back before he tugs it free and shoves it into his pocket. He pulls out a packet of lube with a smirk, and Sam can't help grinning back.

They make short work of each other's clothes, leaving them puddled on the floor in the shattered mess that used to be a cherry pie. Dean turns his back, bracing himself on the work surface with his one good hand and spreading his legs. Sam takes a moment to appreciate the view, rubbing his hand over Dean's spine and down to his ass, ignoring the impatient noise Dean makes.

“Come on, man,” mutters Dean. “Quit fucking around.”

Sam half-laughs. “Thought you wanted me to fuck around?” he says, but he opens up the lube and covers his fingers without wasting any more time. Dean groans appreciatively as he slides two inside him, pushing back his hips and dropping his head. Sam can't help dropping a kiss to his back as he works them in and out, opening Dean up and making his breathing go ragged and harsh.

Sam still can't believe how hot it gets him to see Dean like this, spread out and wanton for him. He knows he's going too quickly, pushing too hard, especially when he swaps up to three fingers while Dean is still tight around him, but all Dean does is moan and push back harder, wanting all Sam can give him. Sam can't help touching him with his other hand, running over the skin of his back and hips, then sliding his hand around to feel how hard his cock is and to jerk it a few times, feeling his own cock twitch when Dean reacts with a choked off swear word.

“Get the fuck on with it,” he growls, and Sam's happy to oblige, pulling both his hands free to slick up his cock.

Pushing inside Dean is amazing, so tight and hot that Sam has to clutch tightly at his hips and concentrate hard to settle all the way in without coming just like that. Dean makes a long, low noise, pushing back into Sam, and Sam can see the knuckles on his good hand whiten as his grip tightens on the edge of the worktop.

Sam fucks him as strongly as he dares, aware of how Dean's left hand is lying uselessly on the counter while his right does all the work to hold him in place. It's hard holding himself in check while Dean's beneath him, panting and desperate and so hot that Sam thinks he's going to break apart.

“Harder,” Dean grunts. “Fuck, Sammy, come on.”

Ever since that first time, moving together in the middle of the night in Dean's bed, Sam has been surprised by just how easily it all comes. Sex with Dean should be weird, or at the least, should involve some kind of complex negotiations, but it's like they already know how to do it, how to touch the other, how to move, how to hit all the right places until they're both reduced to this, needy and wild and so completely caught up in each other that the world could be ending and neither of them would notice.

Dean comes first, Sam's hand on his cock wringing the orgasm out of him while he swears and bucks back, shaking against Sam's body. Sam has to pretty much hold him up for a few minutes, thrusting into him frantically until his own orgasm arrives, forcing Dean's name out as it rushes through him.

They sink down to the floor together, resting against the table, and Sam lets his head fall back and lets out a long breath.

He looks at the kitchen. “This place is a mess,” he observes.

Dean shrugs. “Totally worth it,” he says, nudging his shoulder against Sam's. “That was awesome.”

Sam grins back, and pulls him in for a kiss. It tastes like pie.

 

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[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v95/flawedamythyst/Fic/?action=view&current=cherries-pie_art.jpg)

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The End

 

 

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